


Gifted

by abrae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Knitting, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance, Sewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/pseuds/abrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's got a way with a needle and thread. A bit of a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1246996">Talisman</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifted

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from wiggleofjudas's anon.

"Distract me, John."

Sherlock’s voice is a slow rumble, nearly a groan, and John glances up to see his face, clammy and too pale for comfort. For nearly twenty minutes now John’s hands have been distraction enough, Sherlock following the swift in and out of the small, curved needle with an attentive gaze. But the inevitable adrenaline crash looms and now he reclines carefully in his chair, eyelids heavy and so very tired.

"Stay with me, Sherlock, don’t go to sleep," John murmurs, pulling a thread through the thin epidermis with an expertly palmed needle holder.

Sherlock groans in earnest now. 

"Talk to me," he says, and John smiles to himself.

"About what?" he asks, and Sherlock shakes his head from side to side, pulling his arm slightly in the process and hissing at the pain.

"I told you not to move," John admonishes, clamping his hand down on the inside of Sherlock’s elbow to still his movement.

Sherlock growls irritably, “ _Talk_ to me, John.” He waves his other hand around absently. “Ribald tales of army life - _anything_  to distract me from this.”

John ties a knot in one small suture as he thinks, letting out a soft laugh at the memory that rises to mind.

Sherlock’s eye - just the one, hidden behind a splayed hand - opens.

"What?" he demands, and John shakes his head almost ruefully.

"I was just thinking… did you know I was the best at suturing wounds in my cohort at Bart’s?"

Sherlock frowns. “No,” he answers, then quickly, “Why?”

John tugs gently at at another thread, bringing skin to skin in a delicate touch.

"Would you believe, my grandmother?"

Sherlock opens both eyes now, his gaze narrowing as he tries to anticipate John’s explanation.

"A childhood spent at her knee as she worked her embroidery," he deduces, and John laughs.

"Nope. Guess again," he says, his eyes sparkling at the sight of Sherlock’s glower.

"Crochet," Sherlock blurts out. "Knitting."

"No," John says, tying the final knot together, then cutting off the ends with a deft snip of his scissors. "And no."

Sherlock sits up now, admiring John’s handiwork. 

"It shouldn’t leave too much of a scar," John says, a touch of pride in his voice. "Mine seldom do."

"Mmm," Sherlock agrees, eyeing the fine line of skin. Then he looks up, meets John’s eyes and, with a dramatic sigh, rolls his own and says, " _Tell_ me.”

"Would you believe I used to watch her sew the stuffing into the Sunday roast chicken?"

Sherlock’s mouth falls open, and John snorts softly at the sight.

"Really, she had a way with the needle, and I was always fascinated by the way the string sort-of  _pulled_ at the skin. Seemed like it would hurt, though,” he smiles wryly, “it was already dead.”

They fall into silence, each lost in his thoughts, but when John stands to take his kit to the kitchen, Sherlock reaches out with his good arm and holds him back. There’s an arresting warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment before - a light flush rising to Sherlock’s face, and if John didn’t know any better he’d think that Sherlock was… nervous?

"My grandmother," he croaks, then clears his throat and begins again. "My grandmother used to knit."

Sherlock abruptly stands and rushes out of the room, but before John’s had time to beat a hasty retreat, Sherlock returns with a tissue-wrapped parcel. He sets it down on the arm of John’s chair, takes the kit from John’s hands, then places the parcel in them. John peeks up at Sherlock - sees his eyes are bright and he’s almost gasping for breath. 

"Are you all right?" John asks. "Sit down, Sherlock, before you fall down." 

Sherlock returns to his chair, but now he sits forward as though ready to pounce, his eyes fixed on the parcel in John’s hands.

"Open it."

John pulls on a wide satin bow and lets it waft to the floor. The paper, stiff with age, barely opens, so John reaches inside to pull out a soft grey jumper. The stitches are precise, evenly spaced, neither too tight nor too loose. John runs a hand lightly over the knitted cables that run lengthwise down the front, fingers the wooden buttons gently, says softly, “Beautiful.”

And Sherlock, his eyes fixed on the man standing before him, nods.

"It’s for _you_ ,” he says, very nearly surprised at his own words. John looks up, startled, about to protest when Sherlock closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and says on a sigh, “It was always for you.”

He opens his eyes and John meets them, hesitating for a moment before leaning down, wrapping his free hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, and kissing him lightly on the forehead.

"I know," he murmurs, breathing in the familiar scent of Sherlock’s hair. "I know."


End file.
